"Lie back on the bed and cough when I tell you to, please."
I did so, a little embarrassed I'd gone hard, but since the doctor was examining me to certify me clean to have bareback sex with a man, and he undoubtedly knew that, I didn't know why I should be embarrassed. Maybe it was because the doctor was a hunk and a half and told me up front not to worry about the reason I was there—that he was gay himself. Somehow that revelation didn't help me not become aroused at his touch. He had a gloved finger up my ass and had already had his hands everywhere else on my body, including stroking me hard with a gloved hand, so there wasn't much more intimate he could get with me. Well, there was, and perhaps the embarrassment was that I fantasized him doing it—doing it all to me. While he had a finger in me, I closed my eyes and imagined that it was more than a finger. And I just let myself engorge and throb and then, under his stroking hand, shoot off.
"Ah, very good. A healthy discharge," he murmured. "Can you . . . quickly? Ah, yes, you can. Very good. Very good indeed."
He, Dr. Deeran Chari, had said he was from South India, in the state of Tamil Nadu, which explained why he was a dark brown. But he also was taller and huskier, harder bodied, than I thought of an Indian as being, with muscular arms and a handsome face, with an aquiline nose, a black beard, and, strikingly, milky-blue eyes. His hair was groomed on top, but the sides were pulled around and tied into a bun at back. I wondered how far it would fall when that bun was undone. Would it go to his shoulders? To his waist? Would he look any sexier then than he did now? His features were strong and his forearms were hairy. His cotton shirt was thin enough that I could see that he was hirsute, with curly hair swirling on his pecs and down his clearly cut six pack to his flat belly. A medallion of some sort on a chain nestled between his bulging pecs. Either he rouged his nipples and quarter-sized aureoles, peeking out from swirls of fine hair, or they were naturally rosy. They shown through the gauzy material of his loose-weave shirt.
All of this was contributing to me becoming hard again while he continued poking and prodding me. He held my cock in one fist while doing his work with the other hand—the work that purposely was making me harden and come.
I was a male whore who had been held back for three weeks to be prepared for this assignment. Yes, I was horny. Getting it would just make me hornier. Sam Winterberry understood that about me. But the man was just a doctor they'd brought in. He wasn't going to lay me right here with Winterberry and Deaver watching.
Was he? I began to wonder what sort of fee deal Winterberry and Deaver had made with the doctor. I had no doubt that sexual privilege would be included in the deal if that's what the two needed to get the deal done. And what did I feel about that? With this particular doctor, it would be just fine with me.
We were in a hotel room high up in Mumbai, India's, Taj Mahal Tower Hotel, my having arrived here the previous day, escorted by the chief of the Agency's Candy Store unit, Sam Winterberry, to do a couple of jobs in India, one here in Mumbai, which once had been Bombay, and the other one down on the eastern coast, at Chennai, which once had been named Madras.
The mark here in Mumbai had insisted on a tryst with a young blond male, with classic Westerner looks and a great body, as part of his compensation for spilling his company's guts on middle-man work with Russian and Chinese munitions exports into the Middle East. I was the answering product off the Candy Store shelves for that. He had also insisted on barebacking and on having a certificate of being clean. The Agency had pills for that now, but the man had insisted on the certificate.
Once the doctor had been brought into the hotel room, where Sam Winterberry and the handling agent from New Delhi Station, Jason Deaver, were standing off to the side and observing, Deaver had tried to get Doctor Chari just to sign the certificate, telling him that the Agency had the scientific answer for this well in hand without an examination, but Chari had insisted a full medical check in addition to the blood tests, which he could have processed in a couple of hours, apparently the reason why he was selected.
Deaver had argued, but Winterberry had interjected and said, "Just get on with it. Drake's going to be fucked anyway. Let the doctor do whatever he wants, as long as we have a certificate before dinnertime." I was finding that what the doctor wanted was to get his jollies making me fire off for him.
And so, here I was, lying back on the bed, with a dreamy-looking doctor's finger up my ass and his other hand holding my cock. I didn't mind. The central part of my job was being fucked by men, so a doctor being overzealous in an exam that normally was handled just with a blood test, was no big deal. A bigger deal was watching Sam Winterberry watching me while the doctor had his hands on me. Winterberry's approach to recruitment was to put the man or woman through their paces to determine they could do the job. I knew the look Winterberry was giving me.
And, sure enough, after the doctor declared he was satisfied and was ushered out of the hotel room to put in a rush on the blood sample, Winterberry told Deaver to leave as well.
"Don't dress just yet," he said, as he shut and locked the hotel door. "Stay right there."
When he turned, he was unzipping himself. I sat up on the end of the bed, as he saddled up to me, took his hard, thick, long cock in my hands and then in my mouth, and gave him head. I knew Winterberry's procedures and demands.
He obviously had faith in the Agency preventative pill, because when he turned me, belly down, on the bed and, crouching over me, holding my wrists to the silk bedspread above my head, mounted, and penetrated my channel, he wasn't sheathed. As always, he was thick and long, strong and vigorous. I arched my torso off the bed and back into his chest. He buried his face in the hollow of my neck and held a ridge of my skin in his teeth, holding me in place as psychologically as he did physically. He fucked me hard and deep, as Sam Winterberry always did with his Candy Store agents, making sure I understood who was boss. Most likely he was remembering too that the first fuck just added to my arousal for the next one.
* * * *
Dinner was just for two in a private room of the hotel's Shamiana restaurant. My job was to charm the man and to let him know, in any way he seemed to prefer, that I would be happy for him to cover me and that I'd show him the best of times. Jagan Mehta was a mixed bag. He was ugly as sin, short, and fat. He wasn't overly obese but he was dough-boy pudgy. He was about fifty and berry-brown, although not as dark as the doctor who examined me in the hotel room had been. When he talked—and before he became comfortable with me and his little habits flowed away—he had a silly grin on his face and his head swayed from side to side like a bobble doll. Throughout the meal I had to try to forget the sexiness of the doctor and prepare myself for the target. I had to give this little man a good time.
As the meal progressed, though, that became easier to contemplate. In my job, I'd been fucked by a lot of old, fat men. No matter what was said publicly about the business of intelligence, my Agency, like nearly all of those of other countries, combined the two oldest professions in history—spying and whoring—to gather vital information and conduct operations. I took targeted men—and women, as necessary—however they came because of what they knew that was of intelligence value, and you didn't normally become of interest to the Agency as a young or trim man. It was usually men of experience in age and who were self-indulgent and able to feed their excesses. To sell your nation's secrets to get young male ass required a certain amount of greed and overindulgence. That didn't mean you didn't have a lot of experience of dominating young men in bed, though. Some of these men were men of command, intelligence, and charisma as well. Jagan Mehta was one of those.
My job in this assignment wasn't to take Mehta's valuable information on Russian and Chinese arms sales into the Middle East from him. I sometimes got that end of the assignment as well. Here, though, I was just to take his cock. My services were part of the incentive, the reward. I was just supposed to lay under him and sheath his shaft to reward him for services already rendered.
He came dressed like a maharajah, in beige silks, a turban, and glittering gems on his fingers. I thought he'd be a shallow dandy who thought he was a sexual being. He soon disabused me of that, though. He was personable and sharp. He talked nothing of the topics we the Agency valued him for. He talked broadly on all sorts of other topics and both showed interest and sensitivity to me and respect for my own views. He treated me like I was a courtesan rather than a whore.
